


Double Helix

by Saucery



Series: Hartwin Stories [15]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: A Naughty Twin, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Twins, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Brothers, Corruption, Courtship, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crushes, DILFs, Daddy Issues, Debauchery, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Eggsy Is Nineteen, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, Family, Filthy, First Time, Flirting, Gratuitous Smut, Group Sex, Happy Ending, Horny Teenagers, Humor, IT'S A HAPPY MINDFUCK OKAY, Identical Twins, In Which Harry Has A Twin, Intense, Kink Negotiation, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Lust, M/M, Man Sandwich, Mentor/Protégé, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mindfuck, Misunderstandings, Moral Bankruptcy, Nipple Licking, Non-Canonical Age, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Orgasms For Errbodeh, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Ridiculous, Romance, Sassy, Seduction, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless, Sibling Rivalry, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Snark, So Wrong It's Right, Spitroasting, Subtle Daddy Kink, Sweet/Hot, That Manipulates Everyone Into Having A Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Twinks, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hart twins, Harry and Henry, are equally enthralled by Eggsy. But is Eggsy equally enthralled by them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my own prompt from [this](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/115434534981/twins-though) post. Yes, the rest of the prompts are also forthcoming.

* * *

  


Eggsy having twice the normal number of mentors was already strange; Eggsy being in love with at least one of them was even stranger. The other Kingsman recruits had solitary mentors to whom they reported, but Eggsy had to put up with twice the criticism, twice the censure and twice the affection.

The affection was worse than the criticism, and infinitely more dangerous, because it made Eggsy hanker for approval like a whipped dog, and he hated that about himself, sometimes. He hated that the absence of his father and the abusive violence of his stepfather had made him so desperate for validation that he performed like a circus monkey at the slightest hint of fondness from his mentors. He hated his childhood for twisting him up so much that he kept interpreting that platonic, paternal fondness as—

As lust, damn it, as a perverse facsimile of guardianship that nonetheless had Eggsy masturbating furtively at night, in the dubious shelter of his dormitory bunk, hoping that he wouldn’t be careless enough to whimper the names he shouldn’t be whimpering.

Yeah. Names, plural.

Galahad and Galahad were the notorious twin operatives, whose skill at infiltration and subterfuge was off the charts, because their teamwork was flawless, bordering on telepathic. Additionally, they could be in multiple places at once, appearing and disappearing like djinns, confusing their opponents with apparent double vision. Their individual kill counts were formidable, but as a pair? They were unstoppable.

And irresistible. And terrifying, _because_ they were irresistible, in their matching bespoke suits and razor-sharp smiles, in their elegance and their competence and their seemingly endless knowledge of everything Eggsy. It was as if they were instinctively tuned into Eggsy’s innermost workings, a fact that went past terrifying and into horrifying, given that Eggsy’s innermost workings were... what they were.

Pathetic. Disgusting. And not liable to go anywhere.

Was it really his fault, though? The Galahads, called Harry and Henry Hart, respectively, had a co-parenting style that resembled courtship. Henry bought Eggsy lavish clothes, which was unnecessary as the agency provided plenty of clothing, and Harry took him dining at five-star restaurants, which was unnecessary as the agency provided frequent etiquette lessons in equally luxurious settings.

It wasn’t Eggsy’s fault that he was receiving mixed signals. Was it? Those sodding twins were just as responsible for it.

Harry, especially, was—

He was kind, and stern, and that combination did _things_ to Eggsy, things that Henry’s comparatively permissive instruction didn’t. Harry didn’t constantly hide his savagery behind a veneer of impenetrable polish, like Henry did, and Harry withheld praise until it was truly earned, which made Eggsy fight to earn it even more.

Eggsy’s crush on Harry had reached nuclear proportions, and Eggsy’s nerves were frayed after months of living on the brink of a meltdown.

He didn’t expect that meltdown to arrive on Christmas Day, December 2015, at two p.m. in the afternoon.

Eggsy had aced firearms practice in the shooting range, gotten thoroughly trounced by Roxy at karate, miraculously avoided getting into the millionth pissing contest with Charlie, deposited a glum J.B. in the kennels, and escaped Merlin’s concluding lecture on cryptography ten minutes early, so he could catch the bus to the Hart home in time for lunch.

He’d promised to have lunch with the Harts on Christmas, as a celebration of completing his training. Eggsy was nineteen years old, and starting from next January, he would officially be a Kingsman. He couldn’t wait.

And if a part of him was forlorn at the prospect of not having Harry and Henry as his mentors, anymore, of not having an excuse to hang around in their house as if it were his—to hang around with them as if _they_ were his—he was determined to disregard it. He was being an idiot. Graduating into an agent was a cause for rejoicing, not regret.

So he rang the bell of the white townhouse on Gloucester Road, apprehensive because his ambivalence might be picked up on and misconstrued. Or correctly construed. Fuck.

Eggsy could have disarmed the Hart security system; it was a game he often won. But this was Christmas, and he’d been invited, and Eggsy’s usual saucy confidence had deserted him. After all, this might be the last lunch he had with the twins.

Henry ushered him in, into the lounge with Mr. Pickles’ portrait in it, and poured Eggsy a tumbler of whiskey. “Harry isn’t here, yet,” he said, and there was an odd slyness to him, his eyes hooded and predatory. “He got caught up in—ah, it’s classified.”

“Isn’t it always?” Eggsy sipped his whiskey, his apprehension mounting when Henry drifted closer to him like a cloud. A disturbingly sexy cloud. Henry had Harry’s face, but that was where their similarities ended. They even wore their signet rings on opposite hands. They were both carnivores, but Henry was serpentine where Harry was lupine, roundabout where Harry was frank, and Machiavellian where Harry was direct. Harry loped where Henry slunk, and Harry’s suits were armor while Henry’s were cloaks. If life were a chessboard, Harry would be the knight and Henry the bishop. No wonder they were Arthur’s favorite pieces.

“Hm,” said Henry, draining his cognac and discarding it on the coffee table. His refined, elusive cologne encompassed Eggsy as he cornered Eggsy against the mantelpiece. What on earth was going on?

Eggsy gulped nervously, and Henry’s gaze dropped to his Adam’s apple.

“As of today, Eggsy, you’re an adult in the secret agent world. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Eggsy said, pulse racing at Henry’s proximity, because Henry’s beauty was compelling in a sleek, deadly way. There was a forest-green shadowiness to him, a coiled sibilance perpetually poised to strike from the undergrowth. He could make amiability menacing, and that—that struck a flint of desire within Eggsy, a flare that was entirely different from what he experienced with Harry.

“Of course, adulthood has its… perks,” Henry said, and Eggsy froze, disbelieving, as Henry prowled unmistakably into his personal space. Beyond what was professional. Beyond what was appropriate.

Henry’s jacket was off, tossed casually across the chaise, leaving him in an embroidered sable waistcoat and a midnight-blue tie. Eggsy realized belatedly how significant that informality was, particularly given Henry’s meticulousness when it came to fashion.

Jesus Christ. Henry Hart was propositioning him.

Eggsy had been tutored in flirting with targets, but it only just occurred to him how young and defenseless he was, how clueless in handling a Hart on the hunt. This was no governor’s daughter in a pretty frock. This was Henry, gorgeous and charismatic Henry, and he fancied Eggsy.

He fancied Eggsy _back_.

Eggsy’s heart began pounding, astounded and overwhelmed.

But Harry wasn’t here, and this felt unnatural, like a trespass Harry wouldn’t forgive. Not that Harry fancied Eggsy like Henry did, but Eggsy got the impression that Harry would disembowel Henry like a toad for encroaching on Eggsy’s chastity. It was mortifying, that Eggsy was still a virgin at nineteen, but he hadn’t—he hadn’t been attracted to anybody except the Harts ever since he’d been recruited by them, in a tiny pub in South London.

Henry’s palm cupped Eggsy’s nape, his ring cool against Eggsy’s flesh.

A ring on the wrong hand.

“You want Harry, don’t you?” Henry commented, mildly. “How curious. Most people want us both.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just that...” Eggsy floundered, uncertain of what to say.

“It’s just that, if we were to have you, you would want him to have you first.”

God. That image—

“I could hold you open for him.” Henry’s tone was cajoling, seductive, as if he had sensed Eggsy’s subcutaneous shiver, his incipient surrender. “With your back against me, my hands on your knees, spreading them for him. Watching him enter you, slow and easy, as you cling to my arms and writhe.”

“You’re a fucking artist,” Eggsy gasped. “Some type of pornographic painter of words.”

“Ha,” said Henry. “An artist of fucking, indeed. And as for words... My brother’s more prone to action, which is why his inaction regarding you is so mysterious.”

“You—you think he wants me?”

“Oh, you charming creature.” Henry laughed lowly. “Yes, he wants you. Feverishly. Stupidly. I’d wager that he’s afraid of turning into a dumb beast, when he’s with you, and rutting into you thoughtlessly. That’s why he’s scared to take you, Eggsy. He’s scared that he’ll hurt you. That he’ll like hurting you.”

“How can you know all that?” Eggsy challenged.

“Because, my dear, I feel the same.”

And then, Henry kissed him. Deep and slick, smooth and honeyed, and Eggsy quivered, a fly caught by that unexpected sweetness. By the feral heat hidden in that sweetness, an acid that smoldered and intoxicated, like the poison that laced Snow White’s apple.

Eggsy had meant to kiss Harry first. He’d meant—

“You’re a cheat,” he accused, dizzily, weakly, as his legs threatened to give out.

“You’ll find that neither I nor my twin play fair,” Henry said, “when it comes to something we both covet.”

“I don’t reckon you play, at all.”

Henry chuckled. “Yes, well. It’s more like an amiable war.”

“A war I do not recall waging,” said an identical voice, ringing where Henry’s was hushed.

Eggsy whipped around, alarmed and guilty, as Harry stepped into the room.

But Henry wasn’t phased. He studied his twin with equanimity. “Don’t you?” he said. “Would you feign ignorance as to my interest in the boy?”

“Would you feign ignorance as to the tenets of common decency?”

“Come, now, Harry,” Henry said, dryly. “There is nothing decent or common about what you wish to do to Eggsy. I can imagine the debaucheries you have planned in your mind.”

“And you’re a paragon of virtue, are you?”

“Uh, lads?” Eggsy squeaked. “Maybe you could talk _to_ me rather than over me, like I’m a prize to be won?”

“If you aren’t a prize to be won, then you’re a treasure to be shared.” Henry quirked an eyebrow. “Which are you?”

Eggsy gawked at him, gobsmacked. Was Henry honestly suggesting—not just fantasizing, but _suggesting_ —

“Ignore him,” Harry said, sharply. “Eggsy, do not be pressured by him, or tricked into an arrangement you are not amenable to. You don’t have to accept either of us, let alone both of us. Henry is merely a trickster that sees his only path to you is through me, given that you prefer me, and he seeks to exploit that preference to his advantage, by planting unsavory ideas in your psyche.”

“How unjustly you malign me, brother,” Henry said, mock-mournfully. “Am I so despicable in your estimation? And must you be so pitiless as to outright state that Eggsy prefers you? I am painfully aware of that.”

“I don’t—” Eggsy was torn. “I’m not—”

“Go home, Eggsy,” Harry said, gently. “Spend this precious holiday with your mother and your sister. You won’t get another leave for months.”

Henry scoffed at Harry incredulously. “Surely you jest,” he said. “Here I am, practically unrolling the welcome carpet for you—for _us_ —and you send him packing like an errant child? What self-respecting wolf returns Red Riding Hood unmolested? How ridiculous is your code of honor?”

“As ridiculous as your code of depravity,” Harry retorted. He approached Eggsy and guided him away from Henry, toward the door, with a protective hand on Eggsy’s lower back. “Goodbye, Eggsy. Please forget about my devil of a sibling and his harassment of you, which I apologize for. Enjoy Christmas with your family.”

That... was it? Eggsy tried not to be disappointed. Perhaps it was those filthy images Henry had conjured up, or perhaps it was the kiss, but Eggsy was keyed up and restless, his appetite whetted for a meal that seemed it would never be delivered. A meal that he had thus far thought belonged in his wildest dreams.

So Eggsy did what he invariably did—he flew by the seat of his pants. He grabbed Harry by the lapels of his suit, dragging Harry down for a kiss even as Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

Harry resisted for all of a moment, before Eggsy was _thrown_ against the door, pinned to it as if by the weight of a tiger, as Harry mauled at him and snarled into his mouth. “I can taste ash on you,” he said, viciously, angrily. “From my brother’s dirty habit of pipe-smoking, no doubt.”

Harry’s possessiveness went to Eggsy’s head like a shot of liquor. He hung onto Harry, mewling, because this was what he craved, Harry needing him as much as he needed Harry, Harry claiming him like Henry had done—

“There’s nothing dirty about it,” said Henry, and Harry sprang back, dismayed, as if he’d forgotten that Henry was there. “Don’t stop on my account,” Henry protested, observing them avidly. “Prime him for us, Harry. Groom him into our obedient pet.”

Eggsy shuddered, abruptly and blindingly _hard_ , but Harry was retreating, his features contorted in self-recrimination. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, taking his hands off Eggsy, even though Eggsy had never yearned for them on him as badly as he was doing, now. “I’m so sorry, Eggsy. You should go.”

“No,” Eggsy said, stubbornly. “You’re going to kiss me. And… and f-fuck me.” He stumbled over the phrase, cheeks aflame at his own daring. “If you don’t, I’ll—I’ll let Henry fuck me first.”

“As opposed to letting me fuck you second?” Henry said, hopefully, and Eggsy’s blush intensified.

“Henry,” said Harry, warningly. And, “Eggsy,” with a broken sort of wistfulness. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for. I’m not a gentleman in these matters. I’m—”

“A dumb beast, yes, he knows that, Harry,” Henry said, impatiently. “I told him. Eggsy, Harry will ravage you and mark you and rend you to shreds, in spite of your virginity.”

Eggsy’s cock twitched noticeably in his tented trousers, and Henry grinned.

“But that doesn’t frighten you, does it? Or, it doesn’t _just_ frighten you.”

“Stop bedeviling him, Henry,” Harry said, tiredly. “He deserves better than me.”

“You’re right. He deserves _us_. One to wound him, and one to bandage his wounds. One to destroy him, and one to mend him. One to scar him, and one to heal him. I’m your perfect antidote, brother mine. Your balancing element. The yin to your yang. I can be tender with him, after you’ve been ruthless. I can put him back together, after you’ve taken him apart.”

Eggsy was leaking by now, seeping humiliatingly into his underwear, dampening the crotch of his trousers. He fidgeted against the door, breaths getting faster, as Harry simply stood there, paralyzed. Harry’s pupils were dark and blown, as if he was considering this, as if he was genuinely considering letting himself have Eggsy, and—

“Please,” Eggsy whispered, just as broken and wistful as Harry had been, and Harry... snapped.

  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

“Please,” Eggsy whispered, just as broken and wistful as Harry had been, and Harry... snapped.

There was no other term for it. The plea had scarcely left Eggsy before Harry was on him, his grip tangling in Eggsy’s hair. He kissed Eggsy with intent and fury, as if he couldn’t be delicate, couldn’t be cautious with Eggsy so near. It was like being snatched up in the claws of a great bird of prey, devoured in a single swoop.

But Eggsy gave himself up willingly, eagerly, allowing himself to be plundered, moaning into it shamelessly. And jolting when a third hand ghosted across his hip, from behind him, deftly unbuckling his belt.

“Shh,” Henry soothed, his lips brushing Eggsy’s ear. It was disorienting, how mobile and subtle and clever those lips were, compared to Harry’s ravenous ones, despite being physically indistinguishable. “Let me help.”

Eggsy canted his hips, so that Henry could tug his trousers and his sodden briefs off him. He lifted his feet alternately when Henry urged him to, even as Harry urged Eggsy’s mouth to open wider, fucking it with his tongue like Eggsy suddenly wanted him to do with his cock.

Oh, god. To be choked by that prick, to slobber around it—

Electricity arced along Eggsy’s spine, carving a sizzling path to his dick and making it dribble.

“What a mess you’ve made of yourself,” Henry said, amused, as Eggsy continued to ooze pre-come. Syrupy strands of it congealed in the wiry curls of Eggsy’s groin, and Henry swept his fingers through them, gathering them. “As wet as a girl pining for cock. Are you always so sensitive, darling, or should we take this as a compliment?”

“I can smell him,” Harry rumbled, trailing bites from Eggsy’s swollen, stinging mouth to his jaw. “Slutty and wanton.”

Eggsy had never heard Harry talk like that. It drew a loud, thrilled sound out of him, and Henry promptly shoved his sticky digits down Eggsy’s throat as Harry raked his teeth up Eggsy’s neck, leaving lines of fire in his wake.

“Did I mention that my brother is a bit rude, in intimate situations?” Henry said, cheerfully. “No? It goes with his general caveman persona.”

“Shut it,” Harry bristled, before proving Henry’s point by effortlessly hoisting Eggsy into the air. Eggsy had to wrap all four of his limbs around Harry so that Harry could carry him into the bedroom.

Henry followed them, his attention fixed on Eggsy, on the paleness of Eggsy’s calves against the charcoal of Harry’s suit. “Welcome to our boudoir,” he said, when Harry dumped Eggsy unceremoniously on the bed. “Harry’s boudoir, technically, but what’s his is mine, no? Including you.”

“Fuck, just touch me, either of you,” Eggsy said, because he was on sinfully expensive sheets that felt like both heaven and hell to him, sheer and treacherous at once, like a cliff of silk against which he couldn’t even scramble for purchase. “Press me onto these sheets before I _fall off_.”

“I did tell you your manchester was unsuitable for sex,” Henry said to Harry, “but would you listen to me? No. Let’s move this to my bedroom, where the sheets are a practical cotton, and—”

“Shut. It,” Harry repeated, and draped himself over Eggsy, anchoring him just like Eggsy had said.

“Or you could bluster your way into carnal competence,” Henry grumbled, “like the brute you are.” He climbed onto the mattress beside them, sloping it towards him, and said, “Share and share alike, Harry. Don’t hog him all to yourself.”

Harry grudgingly scooted aside, until he was only half on top of Eggsy, still fully dressed and evidently uninterested in disrobing, even though he roughly unbuttoned Eggsy’s shirt, yanking it off.

There was a long silence.

Eggsy squirmed, subjected to the unwavering scrutiny of twin intimidatingly handsome men. Life wasn’t fair. He was losing his virginity, and he had to be naked in front of two people, not one?

“Lovely nipples,” Henry murmured, at last, reaching out to pluck at them, idly, as if they were the strings of a harp. Pleasure reverberated through Eggsy, clear as a note of music. “Small. Soft. Vulnerable.”

“Innocent,” Harry said, and he looked _wrecked_ , spellbound by the sight of Eggsy’s nudity. “Eggsy, are you certain...?”

“Yes,” Eggsy said, and Henry was kissing him again, deliberate where Harry had been reckless, as if reassuring him.

A coldness against his inner thigh made him jump, and he pulled away from the kiss to see that Harry had acquired a tube of lotion from somewhere, and was lubricating his fingers with it, nudging Eggsy’s legs apart. His brows were lowered and his eyes were arid, blank, alien, flat with an animal hunger.

That was—

It was scary. A little. Or a lot.

Eggsy must’ve given that away, somehow, because Henry said, “Oh, sweetheart,” and enfolded Eggsy’s cock in the gentlest, lightest grasp, pumping it at a tantalizing, unhurried pace that had Eggsy concentrating on that instead of the twinge in his hamstrings when Harry slung Eggsy’s ankles over his shoulders.

Then an oiled thumb slipped into Eggsy’s hole, and Eggsy jerked.

“Look at you,” Harry said, and his timbre had grown harsher, coarser, utterly unlike his customary sophistication. “Ready to take me even if it frightens you. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? Would you beg me to fuck you?”

“Y-yeah,” Eggsy said, tremulously, and Harry _hissed_ , working in a finger beside that thumb, a finger that was too broad but not broad enough, too soon and not soon enough.

“He’s being cruel to be kind, dear,” Henry said, easing up on his stroking of Eggsy’s dick until it was more of a caress, a barely tangible shifting of gun-calluses and the faint, exquisite scratching of nails.

Eggsy arched helplessly into that infuriating tease, a rhythm that merged with Harry’s steady, relentless stretching of him until he was rocking back and forth between them, drugged and lost, sweat springing out all over him and trickling down his sides.

“Like fresh dew on a sapling,” Henry said, distractedly. “Is it salty, I wonder? Or is it sour?” He bent to lick a hot stripe across Eggsy’s sternum, to his nipples, which Henry suckled as if they were berries, until they were tight and sore, plump like buds about to burst.

“Stop,” Eggsy panted, because he was convinced male nipples weren’t supposed to tingle like that, to ache and swell like they were engorged with milk. He curved around them defensively, batting at Henry, who laughed and caught Eggsy’s wrists, pinning them to the pillow.

Harry was also staring at his nipples, as if mesmerized, and Eggsy colored shyly at what Harry must see, Eggsy’s narrow chest a splotchy pink with even pinker nipples on it, like bee-stings.

“Obscene,” Harry growled. He hooked the three fingers he had in Eggsy unerringly, angling for Eggsy’s prostate, which sparked and sent a spear of such keen, vicious sensation through Eggsy that he momentarily whited out.

When he returned to alertness, he found himself gibbering, spouting nonsense, pleading drunkenly, his eyelashes clumped together. His body twisted like it was in agony, and he’d gone from being moist with sweat to being drenched with it. “Harry,” he said, hoarsely, and Harry cursed, unzipping his trousers one-handed and freeing his prick.

“Patience, child,” said Henry, and lay down, clasping a comforting arm around Eggsy, unheedful of his silk waistcoat getting ruined by Eggsy’s perspiration. “Patience. He’ll give you what you need. He needs it, too.”

And Harry did. After a boiling eternity of waiting, punctuated by scalding peaks of heat whenever Harry hit his prostate, Harry finally, _finally_ slid in. By then, Eggsy was so loose and hungry for it that he was trickling lube, his hole grasping and greedy. Harry was huge, entering him in unbearable inches, splitting him like an overripe fruit, and Eggsy’s juices were going everywhere—sweat, pre-ejaculate, tears—until he was a mess of a boy, just like Henry had said he was.

Harry just kept going, inexorable as a battering ram, cramming into him and filling him to the brim. Eggsy shook, as if going into shock. Uncontrollable tremors raced through him, pins and needles as if the very air had sprouted thorns, piercing him and making him bleed ecstasy, his vision going red, then black. His lungs burned from a lack of oxygen.

“Breathe,” said Henry. “Breathe. You can do it. You’re taking it, look, Eggsy.” He supported Eggsy’s lolling head, raising it so that Eggsy could see Harry buried in him to the root, withdrawing in visible, glossy centimeters before thrusting back in. Eggsy groaned, stunned. “You’re doing so well,” Henry said, kissing Eggsy’s brow, his ear, his temple. “So very, very well.”

Harry seemed deaf to it all; his expression was brutal and distant, and it was as though he was seeing Eggsy through a film of flame, a blaze that consumed Harry’s reason and reduced it to cinders.

Eggsy’s shaking resumed, but Henry held him through it, toying with his nipples once more, flicking and pinching at them, before taking Eggsy’s bobbing erection firmly in hand and pumping it, fluid welling over his knuckles and dripping onto Eggsy’s spasming stomach.

Harry—Harry didn’t say a thing. He fucked Eggsy with a bestial focus, in powerful waves that made Harry’s biceps bunch even through his suit-sleeves, that made Eggsy go molten and languid, because he couldn’t so much as reach out to embrace Harry, couldn’t respond with the slightest action, not when Harry was driving into him with a force that was shattering, insurmountable.

All Eggsy could do was lie there and take it.

And love it. Hate it. Love it.

Every skidding, uneven graze against his prostate ignited a deep, searing pulse that shot up his balls and made him almost, _almost_ come—and he quavered with it, sobbing inconsolably. “G-give,” he said, “ _please_ ,” and then, Harry did speak, but not to him.

“Keep him quiet,” Harry said, thick and guttural. “Keep him quiet, Henry, or I’ll fucking _break_ him—”

God, yes. “Br-break,” Eggsy begged, “ _ah_ —”

“No, you don’t mean that, Eggsy,” Henry said, chidingly, and got up. “Trust me. You don’t. You won’t be mission-capable for days.”

That didn’t matter. Nothing did. Eggsy whined, forlorn without Henry curled around him, sheltering him. He was alone again, alone in the storm that wracked him, buffeted him, that dashed him against the rocks of his identity until he was nameless and blind, bruised and mangled.

“H-Henry,” he stammered, “d-don’t—”

“Hush. I’m here. I’m still here.” And Henry was pushing his cock into Eggsy’s mouth, heavy and musky, choking Eggsy with it carefully.

And Eggsy wasn’t alone anymore.

He gurgled gratefully around his mouthful as Henry began moving, smoothing Eggsy’s hair sai from his forehead. Eggsy lapped at Henry when he could, and swallowed when he could. But mostly, all he did was melt, in gradual degrees, feeling himself relax around Harry, as well, until he felt less injured and chafed on the inside.

Now that he wasn’t clenching convulsively around Harry’s shaft, it was simpler to let Harry use him, ruin him, flay him from his soul and leave him trembling like an exposed nerve. His frantic anguish had morphed into a dazed languor, a peculiar vertigo, as if he was flying above himself, dreaming about being fucked at both ends.

He was dissolving, no longer Eggsy but a filament of consciousness, magnetized and vibrating, singing with joy. A hazy bliss clung to him like steam, fogging his awareness and taking him simultaneously away from and into himself. His orgasm was building as if from a distance, a rising tide that made him flush.

“Beautiful,” Henry said, and he sounded so uncharacteristically serious, so overcome with wonderment that Eggsy’s heart clenched within him, like a fist, unwilling to let Henry go. Unwilling to let either of them go. He wanted them in him forever, taking care of him, until he was convinced that he was precious, that he was cherished, that he’d never be abandoned again—

Harry came, slamming into him, and Eggsy jackknifed, splattering himself with semen. His scream was muffled by Henry ejaculating into his throat, the cry smothered into a sloppy burble.

He must’ve fainted, because when he recovered his senses, he was being wiped down with a velveteen towel, his torso cleaned in conscientious, graceful sweeps.

Henry. That had to be Henry.

Which meant that it was Harry kissing him, petting him. A nude Harry—and a nude Henry, given that bare skin surrounded him, warm and close.

Eggsy, groggy and bleary as he was, pried his gummy eyelids apart and saw Harry’s worried face hovering above him.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, tense and penitent. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Mmph,” said Eggsy, still not quite connected to his body. It was as if his mind were a kite, and the string that grounded him had been cut. “Sh’up. M’fine.”

“Of course he’s fine,” Henry said, discarding the towel and nestling beside Eggsy. “He’s perfect for us.”

“Don’t be cavalier.”

“Oh, I’m cavalier? Who was it ploughing into the poor lad like a bull in rut?”

“I…” Harry sighed, and there was a reverence to how he kissed Eggsy, a tentative awe. Eggsy unfurled under it, like a flower under the sun. “He’s so _sweet_ , I couldn’t…”

“He is, isn’t he?” Henry rubbed calming circles into Eggsy’s back. “Pure in ways we’ve never seen.”

“M’not pure,” Eggsy complained, regaining his facility for speech. “You haven’t fooled me, you know.”

Henry’s rubbing paused. “Fooled you?”

“This was a textbook maneuver. Seduction and Conversion, Chapter Nine. Tempt the target into your territory. Offer him or her an offer they can’t refuse. A choice between options that aren’t really options, so they’re trapped by their own illusion of free will.”

Harry’s and Henry’s eyes met above him, startled.

“That maneuver requires strategy and intelligence,” Henry said. “Methinks you’re giving my blockhead of a brother more credit than he warrants.”

Eggsy snorted exhaustedly into Harry’s clavicle. “He’s a Kingsman. He isn’t as much of a blockhead as he pretends. And you,” he jabbed an elbow into Henry, “aren’t as much of a bastard as _you_ pretend. So stop it with the good cop, bad cop routine. I was yours from the beginning, anyway.”

For perhaps the only time in their lives, the twins were nonplussed. Ha. They’d done their best, but Eggsy had triumphed. In a flash of insight—or of madness—he was sure that he always would.

“Bloody hell,” Harry said, eventually. His awe had a new thread of pride in it, golden and bright. That pride settled around Eggsy, with a glow like that of banked embers, and Eggsy smiled.

Harry’s breath caught.

“That’s my boy,” Henry said, approvingly. He smirked at Harry. “Or should I say, our boy?”

“Whatever,” Eggsy yawned, and wriggled until he was comfortable. He throbbed like a sprain, thanks to the Hart brothers, and he needed his rest. “I’m sleeping.”

Which, without further ado, he did.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

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